13. JAKE

I met my mother at a coffee shop. They took away most of their seating and filled the place with jam jars. It doesn't invite people to linger, but my mother, Charlotte Coleman, doesn't care. We're here early enough to grab the only table in the corner.

The shop has yellow-painted walls, its shelves also filled with bundles of strange produce like asparagus, beets, and yams, though nothing on the menu suggests those things are used in the food or the coffee. There are so many plants hung from the ceiling that they've blotted most of the lights, but my mother—and the owners apparently—seem to think it gives the place a nice, shaded-under-a-tree experience. Personally, I find the place dingy and weirdly moist.

With her reading glasses on, my mother looks over the documents I've printed.

"The important parts are highlighted," I tell her.

She flips through the booklet faster than she can read. "Everything is highlighted, dear."

"I don't want you to miss anything."

When she reaches the summary page, a line between her eyebrows deepens.

"What part is confusing? I'll explain it," I offer.

She puts the papers down. "I understand you are buying the house back."

"Yes, but it will stay under your name. No one is going to take it away from you." Again.

Her expression softens. "I know, but this is so much work, Jake. I knew you said you would figure it out, but I didn't realize it was going to be this much."

Before I can respond, a family trickles into the cafe. The man wrangles a brood of kids and the other one goes to the desk to order. My mother's reaction is plain on her face. Longing. She misses him. Her partner. My dad. Unlike me, her heart is forgiving.

"Don't worry," I say when she finally tears her attention away. "I don't mind the work."

She slowly takes her glasses off. "There are… other options. Rooms you can get in a facility or a little apartment in a more affordable area…"

"Not happening. You don't have to worry." I sip my black coffee.

"This isn't your responsibility."

"It's not a burden."

"You must have other things you want to save for."

"There's nothing more I want." My head slants as I consider her. "Why? Do you want to leave the house?"

Does she finally have the tainted memories that I do? No, I think not. Her rose-colored view is remarkably stubborn. In a way, I'm glad it won't ever change. She is exactly who she has always been. Unlike my father, who became a stranger in the end.

"I would like to stay, but—" Her eyes search for the price listed on the papers. Her gasp is an accurate reaction. It's enough to drive the air out of your lungs. Thirty years ago, my father bought the house for a fraction of the cost, but those days are gone. To get it back under Charlotte Coleman's name is going to cost me a fortune.

My mother looks lost. "This is so much, and you're not letting your brothers help you either?—"

"They don't need to help."

My brothers aren't much younger than me, but they've got their own projects going on. "If I can't handle it, I'll ask them for help."

For the time being, I can pull it off. And sure, it will eat up most of my investments to do this, but there's a bonus coming my way that's going to ease everything.

"We're lucky," I tell my mother. "Joe says the owners are motivated to sell it back to us. If they weren't so nostalgic, the house would have a bidding war over it." I drain the rest of my coffee, a bitter taste joining this other bitterness that lives inside me. "Guess dad left an impression on them all those years ago. Good for him."

"You need to forgive him, Jake."

This is an old argument. One I don't have time for today. Not when he's the reason my mother is in this position in the first place.

At my lack of reaction to her statement, my mother sighs. She goes back to trying to understand the paperwork. Her eyes crawl between each word. I feel my mouth curve at her concentration, and then I can't help but grin when she notices me watching and lets out a snore.

"Call Joe," I say. "You like his explanations better than mine."

"That's because despite being a lawyer, he uses pretty metaphors. You are more…"

"Literal?"

"Fact-y."

Facts give you answers. Almost always they do, except I haven't solved this mystery. I've gone through all our old documents a hundred times, and I still don't understand why my father sold the house in the first place all those years ago. No amount of spreadsheet crunching tells the truth. It Does Not Make Sense.

The current owners don't know the reason either. They only have a vague recollection of the original arrangement. The house would be under their name, and they would continue to rent it out to us indefinitely…

Except nothing lasts forever. The owners now want to sell. They know how much the property is worth. Enough for them to cash-out and live overseas.

"I'll ask Joe," my mother decides, eagerly shutting the file. "Now, tell me. When are you going to come visit me?"

"I was there two weeks ago."

"We had tea outside. You didn't stay the night."

"I spent the night last Thanksgiving."

"In the guesthouse. You didn't stay in the main house. You haven't since your father passed away."

I love her, but I don't want to talk about that. I watch as the cafe gets another customer. It's a student hauling an oversized backpack. You can barely see her behind the weight she's carrying. Automatically, my brain goes to Patel. It's the loosest connecting thread, but apparently all I need. Why did she pass out? Her hands were shaking.

I saw her shovel that granola bar into her mouth in the car. Was she hungry? Why was she so hungry? Watching her, I couldn't move. I should have moved.

"You're tired today, darling. Everything okay?"

I'm called back to the present. My mother's concern is obvious.

"I didn't sleep well," I tell her honestly.

It's hard to let go of leftover adrenaline. My pulse had shot up when she fell. Thank fuck I caught her, otherwise she'd have knocked her head and extended our night into further unpleasantness. Not that I didn't try carrying her to the hospital.

Again, doesn't she fucking eat? I don't know. We don't take lunch together, and she's back so fast, I wonder how much she even consumes.

"What kept you up late?" my mother asks. "You're not worrying about the house sale, are you?"

If I say yes, she's going to push downsizing again. Yes, there is nothing wrong with downsizing, but my mother has been through enough. I'm not letting that happen to her.

"It has nothing to do with the house," I say. "Like I said, it's going to be ours. You have nothing to be concerned about."

She fidgets with her hands. "You're not lying to me, are you?"

"No."

I'm not.

I didn't sleep because of Patel, but I'm not about to share that information. Or that I only went home after driving around like an idiot, looking for her car. If I had her phone number or email, I could have at least confirmed she wasn't in a ditch somewhere.

Typical of Patel to burden others without consideration. By driving away, she made me complicit in any accident she might have gotten into. That's why I kept the local news on while I had dinner, and left it on for the rest of the night. It's why I kept waking up every half hour to check my phone for updates.

Today, I feel as exhausted as she looked yesterday. Everyone knows she's pushing herself hard. It's the bonus. She wants to win. So do I. As soon as it was announced, the line between us was drawn even deeper.

There were shadows under her eyes.

My fingers clench around the empty coffee cup. If I didn't need the money this year, would I be fighting her this hard? Could I let her win? Would I?

What a disturbing thought. Deliberately losing isn't part of my personality.

I'm clearly not thinking straight.

The woman gave me the finger before she drove off.

"Is everything good at work?" my mother asks, still digging.

"Great." I stand up. "In fact, I've got to get back to it."

"Okay. See you later, darling. I'm going to sit here for a while."

"Message me when you get home safely."

"I will."

This shop smells like lavender was doused on the walls. I'm glad to leave, but before I do, I see the pastry tray being refilled with fresh bagels. I don't understand what's happening, but I've ordered them all to be packed. Two dozen. From the corner of my eye, I see my mother scrutinizing me.

"For the office," I tell her on my way out.

"That's considerate of you…" Her voice trails.

She's surprised.

This isn't like me.

It isn't.